


Caretakers

by doctorbuffypotterlock79



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:45:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19114627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorbuffypotterlock79/pseuds/doctorbuffypotterlock79
Summary: 2-part sickfic set during the S11 tour. First chapter is Brock taking care of José, second chapter is José taking care of Brock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have a huge weakness for sickfics and I really wanted to write this. Comments and feedback give me life.

Brooke is worried. 

It’s not much of a change from his usual state of mind, but this time, he’s worried about José, and that is a bit of a change. Or maybe it’s not. He was always thinking about José in some capacity. At least this time, the constant thoughts had something to focus on: José is sick, and Brooke rushes out of drag to get back to him. 

Dress off, makeup gone, Brock skips out on a shower and gets back to José’s hotel room as fast as he can. He has the extra room key, and he tells himself it’s just because he’s taking care of José--not because the younger man _wants_ him to have it or anything. He tries not to think about the power of this simple piece of plastic, of how it gives him complete and unlimited access to his--well, Brock doesn’t know what to call him anymore. An ex? Or are they just friends, plain and simple? 

José’s in bed, watching a show Brock doesn’t recognize. He looks a bit better than he did yesterday, but Brock can tell he’s still feeling miserable, and all he wants to do is make it better. He’s put José through so much, and they both know it, and Brock would gladly take the cold upon himself to spare José the sickness. 

“Are you okay? Do you need anything? Have you eaten? Are you hungry? I can get food,” he fires questions one after the other, all his concerns about the man in the bed flooding out of his mind, where they’ve been residing all night. 

“Slow down, Mary. I can’t keep up with all the damn questions,” he croaks. 

His voice is congested, hoarse, and scratchy, which, combined with his usual screechiness, makes Brock snort in amusement. 

“You sound like Oscar the Grouch on crack,” he observes, grinning at José. 

“I'mma take that as a compliment. My boy Oscar knows how to have a good time.” 

Brock laughs. 

“To answer your hundred questions, I’m okay. Just like I was”--he pulls out his phone-- “21 minutes ago when you texted me.” 

Brock blushes. “Sorry. You know how I get.” 

“Yeah, I do,” he replies, and there’s a hint of sadness, though Brock can’t tell if it’s a sadness of regret, of wishing he never had something, or a sadness of longing, of wishing he could have it again. 

“I took some pills an hour ago. I’m not really hungry, you don’t gotta get nothing,” he continues.

“Okay. Just checking. Anything else you need?”

“You can stay with me,” José offers. “If you want to, I mean.” 

Brock’s heart skips a beat, and it’s like time slows. Does it mean anything that José wants him to stay? Does it mean anything that Brock _wants_ to stay? Does it mean anything if he _does_ stay? He shouldn’t stay. Should he? He _can’t_ stay. Can he? But he owes José this much, at least, especially after what he’s put him through. Brock was already worried about leaving him alone tonight anyway, and this way, he knows the younger man is alright. It’s just for the night. No harm in it, really. José is sick, and wants (needs, maybe?) him to stay, and Brock can’t let their past interfere with the wishes of his friend. If José needs (wants?) him there, he’ll stay. 

_How fine is the line between need and want?_

“Sure,” he says, kicking off his sneakers and sliding into the bed. He keeps a strip of space in between the two of them, not wanting to overstep or do anything that José wouldn’t want. 

“I’m kinda cold,” José mumbles. 

Brock is alert in an instant, sitting up with a hand on the hotel phone. “Do you want me to call the desk and get you more blankets?” 

José makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “No, dumbass. I meant-”

“Oh.” _Oh._ “You’re sure?” he checks. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

And Brock forces his mind to quiet down, tries to turn on his side and drape an arm over José without racing through a hundred questions on whether he should do it and what it means for them if he does. He settles into their position easily, like it hasn’t been months since he’s last done it, like he was born to do it. And maybe he was. He doesn’t know, does he? Maybe he was meant to be José’s caretaker, to love him and hold him like this, forever. There are definitely worse things he could have been born to do. And he knows there’s nothing he could have been born for that is more beautiful than this. 

Unable to stop himself, in an effort to get his mind to quiet down, Brock reaches over and places a soft kiss on José’s cheek. 

“You’re gonna get sick, Brock,” he protests half-heartedly. It doesn’t escape Brock’s overthinking mind that José didn’t fight the kiss itself, only that Brock would get sick from it. _Stop thinking._

“I don’t care.” And he realizes it’s true. It could come from some twisted idea of guilt, that if he gets sick too, it counts as some kind of atonement for leaving José. It could be that he’s selfish and just wants a kiss to calm himself. Or it could be that he loves José so much and wants to kiss him so badly that a little cold seems more than a fair price to pay. 

José turns in his arms and kisses Brock back, on his cheek. “Just wanted to do that before I fall asleep. I’m ready to pass out, no offense.” 

“None taken. Sleep. I got you.” 

José is asleep in his arms within minutes, and Brock stays awake for hours after just watching him, treasuring the moment. A moment he thought he’d lost forever. Who knows if he’ll ever get to do this again? 

He’s tired and and has a headache the next day, but it’s worth it. 

It’s two days later and they’re in a new city when Brock wakes up feeling like he got hit by a truck. His head is foggy, his throat burns, and he can’t breathe out of his nose. He groans and calls José. 

“You kept those pills, right?” Brock asks. 

“Yeah, why?”

He sighs. “I think I’m gonna need them.”

“Told you so.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jose takes care of Brock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that read part 1! Also, a special thank you to @mistressaq, for being so excited to read part 2 and actually beta-ing it for me! Feedback and comments are greatly appreciated and give me life.

“Will you find the pills already? I’m gonna drop dead before you find them!” Brock yells, leg bouncing up and down with anxiety. He’s perched on the edge of the bed while José spreads the various pills across the mattress, smug grin lighting up his face. Brock never gets sick and he knows José is having way too much fun with this. 

“You’re not gonna die. You’re fine,” José reassures him for the tenth time, placing a hand on his knee to calm the bouncing. 

Brock tries to listen but he can’t. His mind is moving too fast to slow down, thinking about all the deadly diseases he could have, even though he _knows_ it’s not that bad. 

“Here!” José exclaims triumphantly, loud enough for Brock to hear even as he sneezes. “These shits”--he holds up a strip of red pills-- “are amazing. Two of these and you’ll feel a lot better, trust me.” 

“Good, I’ll need them for tonight.”

“You’re seriously still gonna do the show? Weren’t you just threatening to drop dead a minute ago?” José challenges, eyebrow raised. 

“Look, everyone already thinks we’re fucking on the side. If I’m sick enough to miss a show less than a week after you were sick enough to miss a show, it’s way too obvious. Besides, I’ll be fine once the pills kick in. I want to go on. I really hate missing performances,” he insists, glossing over the uncertain nature of their current relationship. 

He’s performed with a cold before, performed with worse than that a few times. He’s used to working through pain and sickness, pushing himself beyond what is probably healthy, and he’s positive he can get through tonight. And he doesn’t want to tell José (mainly because he knows the younger man will tell him he shouldn’t think this way, and he’s probably right), but Brock doesn’t want to miss a show because it just proves that he is weak. He feels weak enough already to have caught a stupid cold. There’s no way he’s going to succumb to the weakness and miss a show over it, even if he just wants to curl into a ball and sleep all day. _If you don’t go on, you’re a failure. How can you even call yourself a performer if you miss a show for a cold? You can’t fail and disappoint people like that._

“Fine,” José huffs. “But you better remember that I said no to this from the start, and I get one free ‘I told you so’ if it goes bad. _Aaannnddd_ ,” he starts, dragging it out so the word is longer than A’Keria’s orange wig, “you can’t get mad at me for asking how you’re doing every five seconds like you did to me,” he smiles. 

“Deal,” Brock agrees with a grin. He can’t help but notice that José didn’t address anything about the rumors that they were still together. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or upset by that and finally decides on confused. 

They spend the day in bed, flicking back and forth between reruns of _The Office_ and _Parks and Recreation_ , and even in its sick, hazy state, Brock’s mind will not quiet down. José’s hand runs through his hair soothingly, making him feel like a cat. Does it mean anything that José is staying with him when there’s probably other, more exciting things he could be doing? Is he just here as a friend, or to repay Brock for his help, or for something more? What even are they anymore? They’ve been together every day for the past week, and now they’re in bed together for the second time in days. They’ve been finishing each other’s sentences, bantering and laughing in unison like they used to, and just yesterday Brock had been craving cookies and José burst into his room with a bag of Chips Ahoy! like he could read his mind. He groans. He needs to stop thinking or he’ll have a headache on top of everything else. 

Brock doesn’t mean to, but he must fall asleep, because one minute José is rubbing his back and the next his phone alarm blares and he blinks awake dazedly. He forces his eyes open and it’s like the clouds have parted over him--he doesn’t feel that shitty anymore. José was right. Those pills are amazing. He leaps out of bed and tears around the room gathering his bags. 

"I feel good! Let’s do this thing!” 

“Oh, so now you okay, hoe? Three hours ago you were planning your own funeral. And for the record, I don’t think having Nina sing ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ is a good idea,” José retorts. 

“It’s an amazing idea. I stand by my decision,” Brock tries to say seriously, then launches into snorting laughter. José laughs along with him until they both have tears in their eyes, and it’s something Brock thought he had given up for good. Friends or otherwise, having this comfort, this freedom to just _be,_ is something he never thought he’d be able to experience with José again. If it takes an illness to let him have José like this, he’ll gladly get sick a thousand times over. 

*** 

He takes it easy during the show, doesn’t throw himself all over the stage or do any shoulder-stands. Brooke puts on a good front and Vanessa checks on him discreetly enough that none of the other girls suspect anything, except A’Keria, who glances at him with concern every now and then. _That bitch always knows when something’s up_ , Brooke thinks admirably. The crowd is loving them and he feels so good he wonders if he was ever really sick or if it was all a dream, but the warmth and softness of José’s hands on his back were just too real to have been in his head. (He would know. He’s been dreaming about José’s touch for months now, each time waking up breathless with regret and longing and want). 

But in the last 10 minutes everything goes to hell all at once. His limbs are made of cement and he can barely move. His head weighs a million pounds, straining his neck just to hold it up. He’s swallowing razor blades and his nose has become Niagara Falls. Brooke hopes Nina has enough time to prepare her song for the funeral. He staggers off stage after the last number, head spinning and floor shifting beneath his heels, Vanessa rushing after him in a flurry of sequins. She stretches a hand up to his forehead and her face twists with worry. “You’re really burning up, Brooke. We better get you to bed.” 

There’s no argument left in him. He knows she’s right, and if it wasn’t for her arm around his waist he’d be on the floor right now. He’s Cinderella after midnight, pills worn off and magic stripped from him. Brooke nods tiredly and lets her lead him back to the dressing room to de-drag. 

They get back to the hotel as fast as they can, Brock collapsing into bed and waiting anxiously while José digs through the mess of medicine bottles on the dresser and recovers a thermometer. 

“Don’t be so scared, Brock. You look like a kid about to get a shot at the doctor’s office,” José teases as he brings the thermometer to the bed. 

Brock manages a small laugh, grateful José is trying to calm him. “I just kinda...freak out when I get sick. It doesn’t happen much so when it does I turn into a baby and panic about it,” he admits. 

José slips the thermometer under his tongue and gently caresses Brock’s face, running a thumb over his too-warm cheek. “You’re okay, baby. Nothing to worry about,” he whispers softly. 

Now that he’s off stage and in bed, now that he’s here with José and doesn’t have to put on the ‘I’m fine’ mask, the worry is coming back. _Vanessa said he was warm, which means he has a fever, which means he’s sicker than a cold. What if he’s dying? Oh god, he’s dying_. He wills the thermometer to hurry up and beep, tell him how high his temperature is so he can start listing the various illnesses it might be a symptom of. 

José pulls out the thermometer and squints at it. “101.9. Why you always gotta be an overachiever, Brock? Can’t even get a damn normal cold.” 

“Sorry.” _101.9, that’s not too high, right?_ His rational side tries to convince him. But the fear is rising so fast rationality has jumped off a roof. _It’s not low, you idiot, it’s basically 102, and another degree puts you in the danger zone. Besides, there’s plenty of fatal diseases that start out slow. You’re still gonna die._

José laughs. “Well, one of these pills will take care of the fever. Just let me find it. You’ll be okay.” 

"Are you sure? What if it’s some sort of rare disease? What if I’m dying? I’m probably dying. I’m gonna die in a hotel room, oh my God. You better take care of my cats,” he commands, rapidly coming to terms with his own death. 

“You’re not dying. Calm down.” 

“How do you know?” he demands hysterically. “You’re not a doctor!” 

“Neither are you, Mary!” José yells, exasperated. He takes a breath and softens. “Look, I promise you’re gonna be fine. I was sick, and I’m okay now, and you’ll be okay too.” He pauses, then grips Brock’s hand and looks him directly in the eyes. “Brock, do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?” 

Brock goes quiet. He knows how serious José is, and even his worrying mind cannot doubt the sincerity. (Well, it could if it really wanted to, his doubt is what caused the whole mess months ago in the first place, but Brock manages to turn it off for now). Regardless of what happened or what will happen, Brock knows that José is here, and nothing bad is going to happen to him because José won’t let it. 

“I trust you,” he says simply. He discreetly wipes at his eyes, which are brimming with tears he just can’t let fall. Thankfully José doesn’t say anything, just grabs a bottle of Gatorade and holds out a pill for Brock to take. 

He takes the pill and José gets him settled, fixing pillows, adjusting lights, and making sure he has a water bottle next to the bed. 

"You’ll stay with me?” Brock asks, echoes of mere nights ago running through him. 

“Of course.” 

Brock pats the space next to him and then turns on his side, praying José will do what Brock is so desperately and deeply wishing for. José presses up against his back and lowers an arm around his waist, a mirror image from earlier this week. Brock holds back his smile, but nothing can stop the jolt in his heart or the warmth spreading in his stomach. 

José leans over and kisses him on the cheek, and the deja vu sends Brock’s head spinning. He wonders if José will get sick again, and pictures himself taking care of the younger man. Then maybe Brock would get sick again too, and José would take care of him, and he wonders if the two of them would just keep going back and forth getting sick and helping each other, caught in an endless loop of being each other’s caretaker. He honestly doesn’t think it would be so bad, and he wonders if the fever is messing with his head. _What if he’s delirious? Can you be considered delirious if you know you’re delirious? Maybe he should--_

“Stop thinking so loud and get some sleep, baby,” José says quietly. 

That’s the second _baby_ of the night, Brock notes. _Please stop_ , he begs himself. _Just please stop thinking. I’m too tired for this._

Brock starts coughing, pain shooting through his chest as the fit worsens. His shoulders heave and he is gasping for breath and holding his ribs when it finally ends. José is no longer behind him but in front of him, holding out the water bottle from the nightstand. Brock takes a few cautious sips and regains his breath before giving the bottle back to José. 

The mattress dips as he returns to the bed, and then José’s hands are on his back again, rubbing soothing circles. The touch is light, and warm, and _real_. It’s real, and those hands on his back slow Brock’s breathing down. It’s real, and his mind is able to be quiet for once and focus on the touch without overthinking it. It’s real, and it is infinitely better than anything he could possibly dream of. 

"Thanks,” he whispers. 

“Oh, one more thing. You had me so worried I almost forgot.” 

“What?” 

“I told you so.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will have Jose taking care of Brock. I'm hoping to have it posted in a week or so.


End file.
